


Hawke Forgotten

by Pandigital



Series: Hawke Rising [2]
Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: Angst, Blood Magic, Brainwashing, F/M, Gen, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Mental Instability, Temporary Amnesia, Temporary Character Death, War
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-12
Updated: 2016-05-15
Packaged: 2018-06-07 23:21:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 12,522
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6829474
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pandigital/pseuds/Pandigital
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened while Hawke was away in Seheron?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Ill Made Plan

The Elder One had promised a world where they were once again the ruling class and all other were nothing more than dirt under their feet. It had been a plan of waiting, of gaining allies in far places and having houses who has been bitter rivals since the dawn of time to cooperate with one another. Years of planning and years of waiting had been undone by his stupid son. Malcolm Hawke had joined the Grey Warden and sealed the Elder One away. Blood magic and blood spells and prayer woven in to make it too hard to force open. They had tried to use his blood to open the seal but it was not enough. They wrote to him every week about how the blood was not working.

The magic was too weak to break the seal on their Elder One. Carver Hawke, the only grandson he had was born just as plain and common as his whore mother. Not one drop of magical blood. But the girls, oh, they had magic. Better yet, the elder girl, she had been born to a special class of mage that was quickly becoming a rarity like a spirit healer. The hard won genetic prize of being born a Dream Walker, Fade Walker, a killer who did not have to be near you. Power to step into the Fade and find the eternal soul of the person they wanted to kill. A skill the girl never put into use.

Her blood could open the seal! She could be a part of their plans, help them bring about the dawning of a new age. And she wanted nothing to do with it. She did not understand that she was born to the master race and that mages, and only mages, should have any say in how things are done. Who better to bring about the will of The Maker then those who could wield power just like he could? Now she was gone and hard to find. The war zone of Seheron had taken her deep into its pitch black heart and no news had come for weeks on her platoon.

She wrote to her mother, whom she had sent to live in Kirkwall in her old home along with the brother. A free state in the Free Marches that he could not reach, even with his power. The other girl had been sent away as well, along with her pet slave she had won from Danarius. Not even The Shadow could find her and now Nicodemus would wait no more. They had plan to bring about the new age and that meant acting, not waiting. Maybe the others of their cult had forgotten that but him. It was time for a call to action.

But first he needed a way to draw Bernadette out of hiding. He had to have something to hold against her. As fate would have it, he had just the right idea to bring back his daughter-in-law and her bratty son. The other girl would be much harder to obtain, but not impossible. Not like how sweet, stupid Bernadette thought that it would be. Nicodemus had a plan. It was complex and sneaky and more fun that it should have been.

The bright side to this plan that should it come to fruition he would have his granddaughter back in his pocket and unable to run away from him again. The downside to his plan was that he would have to speak to many lords and ladies he was not looking forward to speaking with. On the upside, it meant that when he called the meeting he could make them meet him at any time given his status as a very old Magister. A meeting at dawn was always the best time. His target was often still drowsy and their tongues loose. Normally but not this time. This time his target was as old as him and the dawn was a welcome sight.

“I do not sleep as I did when I was younger,” Grandmaster—a title given out of spite more so than respect to any Mage in their order(secret and old as it is)— Jemmsy told him, by way of apology for the dawn meeting, “I would sooner be up, though the world be dark, than lie restless abed, fretting on tasks undone,” he said, though his heavy-lidded eyes made him look half-asleep, as he said it. In the airy chambers beneath the rookery, his slave-girl served them boiled eggs and porridge, and set out a bowl of plums, while Jemmsy served the pontifications, “In these sad times, when so many hunger, I think it only fitting to keep my table spare.”

He meant the lower class, always hungry and always willing to do unspeakable things for food that they in the upper class had little worry about. Slaves ate well, they ate better. The freemen ate what was able to be bought or stolen. Nicodemus gave a low hum in the back of his throat as he wiped his spoon off. It wasn’t made of silver and thus he felt dirty to touch it. The Grandmaster probably felt dirty looking at his working legs and knowing he was in part the cause of it. Blood magic was only ever used in secret, a poor secret to be sure, but it was always used and weaker men(like his son and his grandchildren) often felt dirty after the deed was done.

“Commendable,” Nicodemus admitted, breaking a large brown egg that reminded him unduly of the Grandmaster’s bald spotted head, “I take a different view. If there is food I eat it, in case there is none on the morrow.” He smiled, “Tell me, are your ravens early risers as well?”

Jemmsy stroked the snowy beard that flowed down his chest, “To be sure. Shall I send for quill and ink after we have eaten?”

“No need.” Nicodemus laid the letters on the table beside his porridge, twin parchments tightly rolled and sealed with wax at both ends. “Send your girl away, so we can talk.”

“Leave us, child,” Jemmsy commanded. The slave girl, dark skinned and blue eyed with half elven ears, hurried from the room, “These letters, now...”

“For the eyes of Sebastian Vael, Prince of Starkhaven.” Nicodemus peeled the cracked shell away from his egg and took a bite. It needed salt among other things, this food would hardly fill a child's stomach, “One letter, in two copies. Send your swiftest birds. The matter is of great import.”

In truth it wasn’t. It was a simple lie and lies often got the job done. Sebastian was in Kirkwall, looking for the killers of his family. Nicodemus could give them to him to let him hand out justice, so long as he did a favor for a favor. Leandra and Carver were not important to Nicodemus, but to Bernadette they were. In Kirkwall they were safe, far from him and his power. But if they came back, then Bernadette would have no other choice to but come back along with her sister.

“I shall dispatch them as soon as we have broken our fast.”

The Shadow had been in the general senate meeting while they had spoke of Seheron and the latest news from the war front spoke of a naval battle to come, should the Arishok take their most valued stronghold. Nicodemus needed her alive not dead to Qunari gaatlok, “Dispatch them now. The Arishok is leading his host up the Rose Road in Seheron, and no one can say when he will sail from Dragonstone.”

Dragonstone, as it was called, was once a port that they had control over for many years, until the current Arishok took over and drove them away. The island was spilt and it had been for a long time. Dragonstone was a port that lead right to the north of their country. The northern half of Tevinter was littered with ruins and a few schools of arcane arts. Necromancy, Fade-Walking, and even a school of summoning. The Qunari were not stupid, despite what they were told. Once they landed in the north, there would be no stopping them from descending on them.

Jemmsy blinked, “If my lord prefers-”

“He does.”

“I am here to serve.” The Grandmaster pushed himself ponderously to his feet, his chain of office clinking softly. Jemmsy moved so slowly that Nicodemus had time to finish his egg before the sound of wings prompted him to rise. He spied the raven, dark in the dawn sky, and turned briskly toward the maze of shelves at the far end of the room. The Grandmaster’s medicines made an impressive display; dozens of pots sealed with wax, hundreds of stoppered vials, as many milkglass bottles, countless jars of dried herbs, each container neatly labeled in Jemmsy’s precise hand. He would need a certain vial for his plan. He looked at each bottle, eyes scanning the words quickly.

He noted sweetsleep and nightshade, milk of the poppy, the tears of Lys, powdered greycap, wolfsbane and demon’s dance, basilisk venom, blindeye, widow’s blood. Standing on his toes and straining upward, he managed to pull a small dusty bottle off the high shelf. When he read the label, he smiled and slipped it up his sleeve. Just what he needed. Now all he needed was his daughter-in-law and her warrior brute of a son. Then everything would come together. All he had to do was wait.

He was back at the table peeling another egg when Grand Master Jemmsy came creeping down the stairs, “It is done, my lord.” The old man seated himself, “A matter like this is best done promptly, indeed. You did say it was of great import?”

“Oh, yes.” The porridge was too thick, Nicodemus felt, and he wanted butter and honey. To be sure, butter and honey were seldom seen in Minrathous of late, though The Archon kept them well supplied in the capital. Half of the food they ate these days came from his lands or Lady Tanda’s, that old crone who had wanted to marry his son once her husband had died by her own hand. His ashes hadn’t even been cool when she had come calling. Malcolm had been long gone by then though.

“The Prince of Starkhaven, himself. Might I ask…?”

Nicodemus shot him a look, “Best not.”

“As you say.” Jemmsy’s curiosity was so ripe that Nicodemus could almost taste it, “Mayhaps the Archon’s council—”

Nicodemus tapped his wooden spoon against the edge of the bowl. “The council exists to advise the Archon, Granmaster.”

“Just so,” said Jemmsy, “and the Archon—”

Nicodemus cut him off, sharp and quick as a snake, “—is a busy man. I speak with his voice.”

Jemmsy looked wholly unconvinced, despite the fact that he and the Archon shared blood, but he knew better than to bring up old and bloody history as to why his sisters fourth child sat on the throne instead of her elder, “So you do. Indeed. The Archon’s Own Hand. Yet... your most gracious daughter-in-law, she—”

Nicodemus gave him a look and clicked his tongue. Truth be told when he had seen Leandra he thought nothing of her. He didn’t know what his son had seen in her. His grandchildren, they looked too much like his son that at first he had felt so proud of his son for fathering so many mages. Until he found out that the boy was not a mage, like his mother. Worthless. But this man didn’t need to know how little he thought of his daughter-in-law.

“—bears a great weight upon those lovely white shoulders of hers. I have no wish to add to her burdens. Do you?” It was no secret that she knew where her oldest was now. In the middle of a war and she was far from home. Nicodemus felt that she needed to know what her children were up to in her absence. Nicodemus cocked his head and gave the Grand Master an inquiring stare. Jemmsy dropped his gaze back to his food.

Something about Nicodemus’s eyes made men squirm; knowing that, he made good use of them. Gold looked too much like a demon's eyes. They saw too much without much being said.

“Ah,” the old man muttered into his plum, “Doubtless you have the right of it, my lord. It is most considerate of you to spare her this burden.”

“That’s just the sort of fellow I am.” Nicodemus returned to the unsatisfactory porridge, “Considerate. Leandra is my own sweet daughter-in-law, after all.”

“And a woman, to be sure,” Grandmaster Jemmsy said, “A most uncommon woman, and yet it is no small thing, to tend to all the cares of her family, despite the frailty of her sex...”

_Oh, yes, she’s a frail dove, just as own dear Malcolm used to be,_ Nicodemus thought sourly as the thick and bland tasting porridge washed over his tongue.

“I’m pleased you share my concern. And I thank you for the hospitality of your table. But a long day awaits.” He swung his legs out and got up, “Be so good as to inform me at once should we receive a reply from Kirkwall? “

“As you say, my lord.”

Nicodemus gave him a cold smile, “And only me?”

“Ah... to be sure.” Jemmsy’s spotted hand was clutching at his beard the way a drowning man clutches for a rope. It made Nicodemus’s heart glad. He waddled out into the lower bailey; his legs complained of the steps. The magic was fading from his legs. Blood magic lasted a long time, but it still faded if it was not maintained. He needed Bernadette, for not only their Elder One but to heal his legs once more, just like her father had done so many months ago.

The sun was well up now, and the castle was stirring. Guardsmen walked the walls, and knights and men-at arms were training with blunted weapons. Nearby, Aegis sat on the lip of a well. A pair of comely serving girls sauntered past carrying a wicker basket of rushes between them, but the Magister never looked. He was so sure of his marriage to Bernadette. How quaint. If the only son of Halward Pavus was not good enough for her, then no man was, she would be promised to a demon before Nicodemus let some low born noble bred her.

“Aegis, I despair of you.” Nicodemus gestured at the wenches, “With sweet sights like that before you, all you see is a gaggle of louts raising a clangor.”

“There are a hundred whorehouses in this city where a clipped copper will buy me all the cunt I want,” Aegis answered with a sniff and cleaned his nails with an air of boredom, “but one day my life may hang on how close I’ve watched your louts.” He stood, “Who’s the boy in the checkered blue surcoat with the three eyes on his shield?”

“Some hedge knight. Tallad, he names himself. Why?”

Aegis pushed a fall of hair from his eyes, “He’s the best of them. But watch him, he falls into a rhythm, delivering the same strokes in the same order each time he attacks.” He grinned, “That will be the death of him, the day he faces me.”

“He’s pledged to House Alexius; he’s not like to face you.” They set off across the bailey, Aegis matching his long stride to Nicodemus’s short one. His dark hair was washed and brushed, he was freshly shaved. From his shoulders trailed a cloak of Pavus silver patterned with gold, peacocks, and snakes, “How many supplicants do we have today?” he inquired.

“Thirty odd,” answered Aegis, “There’s a moneylender from Antivia, holding fancy papers and the like, requests to see The Archon about payment on some loan.”

Nicodemus snorted, “As if he could count past twenty. Send the man to Lender, he’ll find a way to put him off. Next?”

Aegis scoffed, “A lordling who says your friend’s men burned his keep, raped his wife, and killed all his slaves.”

“I believe they call that The Game.” Nicodemus smelled Amory Clegane’s work, “What does he want of Quentin?”

“New slaves,” Aegis said, “He walked all this way to sing how loyal he is and beg for recompense.”

“It is not recompense if those slaves are owned by the Archon who has allowed him to purchase them. I’ll make time for him on the morrow.” Whether truly loyal or merely desperate, a compliant river lord might have his uses, “See that he’s given a comfortable chamber and a hot meal. Send him a new pair of boots as well, good ones, courtesy of Archon Quentin.” A show of generosity never hurt.

Aegis gave a curt nod, “There’s also a nasty rumor about a great gaggle of bakers, butchers, and greengrocers clamoring to be heard.”

Nicodemus had heard the rumor. When the threat of war loomed, the rabble always went crazy first. He had been around long enough to see it countless times. Only a thin trickle of food was coming into Minrathous for the lower class, most of it earmarked for the garrison. Prices had risen sickeningly high on greens, roots, flour, and fruit, and Nicodemus did not want to think about what sorts of flesh might be going into the kettles of the pot-shops down in the slums. Fish, he hoped. They still had the river and the sea; at least until The Arishok sailed.

“They want protection. Last night a baker was roasted in his own oven. The mob claimed he charged too much for bread.”

“Did he?”

Aegis gave a one shoulder shrug, “He’s not apt to deny it.”

“They didn’t eat him, did they?” Nicodemus chuckled

“Not that I’ve heard.”

“Next time they will,” Nicodemus said grimly, “The Templars—”

“They claim there were Templars in the mob,” Aegis said, “They’re demanding to speak to the Archon himself.”

Nicodemus had seen this happen before and it had resulted in the last Archon being hung above a vat of boiling water while the lower class tried to sever the rope using arrows. It had lasted hours as the Templar tried to beat the crowd away to save her. She died anyway when a slave jumped up and cut the rope before the Templar could save her. The slave followed after. Two boiled bodies and six months of panic. Malcolm had left not long after, since his dear aunt had passed in such a tragic manner. It had started the downward spiral of his legacy.

“Fools.” Nicodemus had sent them off with regrets; his nephew would send them off with whips and spears. He was half-tempted to allow it but no, he dare not. Sooner or later, some enemy would march on Minrathous, and the last thing he wanted was willing traitors within the city walls, “Tell them Archon Quentin shares their fears and will do all he can for them.”

“They want bread, not promises.” Aegis said as he and Nicodemus began to part ways on a three way thoroughfare.

Nicodemus spoke over his shoulder, “If I give them bread today, on the morrow I’ll have twice as many at the gates. Who else?”

Aegis snorted laughter and went his way, while Nicodemus struggled up the serpentine steps leading back to the Senate.

********

Sebastian Vale is not what Nicodemus had pictured from his father nor his mother. A father of dark skin, green eyes and poor diet, making him pot bellied. A mother with the skin condition of albinism, with soft blue eyes and never setting foot outside. A man like this should not have been the product of two people with questionable genes. Mocha skin, blue eyes like the sky, soft in the voice but well spoken, a strong jaw and high cheekbones that made his eyes seem sharper. Being skilled with a bow was just an added bonus. The Shadow had come to him only three weeks after his lie had been sent away.

He had been expecting a letter, not the lowly born prince to come in person. Nor to come with a dwarf armed with a unique crossbow and a red-headed Fereldan dog-lord and her battered Templar shield. He had told by The Shadow to make himself seem weak and old, make the prince doubt any ill will. That was not a hard task, since his legs had been hurting him for weeks now. He walked with a limp as they followed him to the parlor. Tea was set out for them as he took his high backed chair slowly and rubbed at his knees. Sebastian was watching him closely.

“I must admit,” Nicodemus said softly as he served the tea himself, since he had made the slaves hide and be silent in the face of this uppity free minded prince, “I was hoping for a letter, my lord, not a visit from a prince. Or is it king now?”

Sebastian seemed to take a deep breath and then answered in a very clipped tone, “King when I take my vows and marry a bride. But I wanted to see your face when I asked you how you knew who had killed my parents and why come to me knowing I would seek them out.”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

The dwarf answered with a smug smirk, “Well, choir-boy here can’t seem to find hide nor hair of these would-be assassins and yet your letter comes, preaching good will toward men and peace on earth, and all without asking for something in return. Seemed too good to be true. So he comes asking me for help and don’t you know it, heh, not only are these poor sods in Kirkwall but they are just like how you said. In hiding.”

The red-head speaks next, “What Varric is trying to say, is that it seems to good to be true since the deed done to the Vale family was so foul. We wonder if you had any role to play in that?”

Nicodemus laughs at his, if only he had been the one to give the kill order, “No, no. I am a Magister though. And I see and hear things about all of my good friends. They love to gossip you see. So when I heard that little tidbit I couldn’t help but poke about to see if it was true. And it, sadly, was. The Vale family might have lost their way but they were still true to the faith.”

Sebastian seems to grind his teeth, and then stops to speak, “We are a devoted family, serah. So I will ask kindly, what do you hope to gain from my own loss?”

“My family,” Nicodemus sighs and looks down into his tea, making his face as long and forlorn as he can, “has recently suffered from a loss as well. My only son, Malcolm, passed away by assassin attack. My granddaughter was able to bring them to justice swiftly, but in her grief she has gone to war in Seheron with Qunari heretics. She has sent her mother and brother to Kirkwall were I know they will not be safe. Should your Templar find them…”

The dwarf, Varric, gives a low whistle, “They’re mages?”

Nicodemus can’t help but laugh, “No. But, being the wife to a mage who ran from his circle? Having his children, one of whom is now a high level magister in Tevinter? I dare not think about what would happen to them should her own maiden name not be enough to shield them while my granddaughter is away at war.”

Sebastian sighs and rubs the space between his eyes for a moment and then leans forward, “you want to bring them home?”

“Yes. I fear that if anything happens to them while she is gone, my granddaughter might do something very...drastic.”

Varric and the redhead exchanges looks and she speaks, “Surly one mage can not do harm to a whole city?”

“She can. She is a Fade Walker. Born that way. One of the Old Dreamers born in this age. She can kill you while she sleeps. Stop you from breathing if she wants.” Nicodemus says, “It is how she killed the assassin who took my son from this world.”

“And if they do not want to come?” Sebastian asks. Nicodemus sets down his tea cup and reaches into his coat pocket, pulling out a letter. He holds it out to the prince, letting his hand shake as though the letter is too heavy.

“Give her, my daughter-in-law, this. If she does not come then she does not and I am a foolish old man for thinking that her safety is in jeopardy. But if she does, then please, just make sure she gets on the ship. I worry for her. And for my other granddaughter.”

“Other?” the redhead asks.

Nicodemus nods his head as Sebastian takes the letter from him, “Indeed. She is the twin to my grandson. She is in school in...oh, I think that Bernadette placed in her Orlais. She thinks that she will be safe from the war should it come here.”

“And yet you want to bring the rest of your family here with war looming on the horizon?” Sebastian asked with narrowed eyes.

“I want them where I know it will be safe.” Nicodemus pleads, “Tevinter has been at war with those Qunari for generations, but they have never, NEVER, broken onto the mainland. But what of Kirkwall? They have never fought Qunari, they do not know how to kill them. I would rather they be here where magic is never weakened then be there where a sword arm will fail you in the heat of battle that has been long drawn out.”

Sebastian looks down at the letter and then stands, “I will deliver the letter and no more. She shall come of her own accord or not at all. But I thank you for helping my family. If there is anything that can be done, please ask.”

“You need a wife?” Nicodemus asked.

“Yes.”

“Then please, should my family finally be together again, come and meet Bernadette. She is of noble standing. She might be a good match for you. At the very least you shall have an ally in a far flung place.”

“I will consider it. Varric, Aveline.” they stood and they all began to leave. The prince gave him a small bow and went after his friends. That letter would assure that Leandra came home. She would not let her only son wander from her. After all, the boy would have no choice. The magic inside those words would compel him to come back home and be a good lad with not a word of complaint. In fact, he might never speak again. Nicodemus couldn’t help but smile.

 


	2. Hawke's journal

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I think I'm going crazy.

_ I don’t know why I’m writing on a piece of paper. I don’t even know what day it is anymore. The commander told me to write everything I was feeling down. He said that I would make a prime choice for possession in my state. I have not slept for a long time. I miss Bethany and Carver being next to me while I sleep, their heat and breathing like a lullaby. I miss Fenris too.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ I miss him for different reasons though. The jungle is hot and sticky and I watched as some large cat with a name I couldn’t say kill a man. I didn’t even flinch as we killed it because it kill him. I don’t think anyone did. It had been stalking us for a while, I think. It jumped down from the trees and sunk its teeth, long and yellow and sharp, into his throat. He had been looking up.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ I think he knew and he wanted to die. He had been fighting here for almost ten years. I think the jungle gets to you. Makes you a little crazy. I never used to bite my nails, but I do now. I bite them all the time and pace. I feel like something is living under my skin.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ Something wicked. I dare not dream, for I fear that if this thing is inside me it will take over my body while I’m asleep and...no, I won’t sleep. I am not bound by my body when I sleep. I can hurt people, kill them. I wonder if I can make it all the way to Kirkwall? Just to see if they are all right. Carver and Mother.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ Fenris. No. No, he’s not there anymore. He left. Mother said he left to try and find me. How silly. Worse things can happen to someone, my dear Fenris.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ My love. I miss him. I miss mother. I miss father. I miss Bethany and Carver too. I feel sick all the time now and food taste like ash in my mouth. I think I saw father in the fog while I was on watch.  _

_ I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _

 

_ He looked right at me and he was so skinny and looked beaten. I do not want his ghost to haunt me. I was not able to save him. I wasn’t able to save Fenris from being a slave. I saved the others but not them. Maybe I am a horrible person. Let him haunt me.  _

_ Come at me demons! I have no fear of you! I have no fear of you demons! ̳͙̮͎͚̼̲̩I̟̠'̻̹̟̫̝̲ͅm̮ ͕̫l̠̮y̫̬i̲̞̪͇̹̯ͅn̹̥̠̘̙̤̩͓̮g̹̖̮.͍̺̗͕̝̜ ͓͕̥̰͚̗̥T̹͈͇͔̺͙i͖͎̬̼̥̭r̮̗̝̼͕̥̬e̳͚̘̙͖̪̤ḏ̝̟͎̺̞.͖͍̱̰͓̯̬ ͈T͚̻͈̻ị̠̱̥̠͕r͖̩e͎̰͙̭̠̯ḓ̹̠͙͖͕̻.̗̮͍̫̺ ͉̙͚̦̤͈ͅI̬͖͙̞'̖͇m̰̼ ̯͔̥̞̪̠ͅs̖̺̪̬̤o̩̳̫̘ ͓̲̝̳̝̖t̳̪̮̤͚͖i̜̠̫̩ͅr͉͎̼̦͕̱e͍͔̳d̩͈̫̰͕.̰̳̤̫̣͚̠ͅ ̟̭̬͕̹͖̱S̩̯h̩̟̣̼̲ụ̤͉̳̩̲t̪̮̲̭ ̲͉̝̙̥̦u͍͍̪̙̫̹p̬̗͓.͚̬͚̮̣̰ ̦̖̝̰͓S̞͎h̥̺̬͖͚̥̳̹u͙̼͎̣t͔̖ ̦͍̖u̜̫p̮͎̻̖̝͓.͓̝͕̟̜̝̫̩ ̣͇I̬̬ ̱͈d̟̗̬͔̫o̠̙͍̯͎̱̝ͅṉ̱̩̰̟̤̙̰'̤̫̙t̞͓̥̖ ̩͎͇̲̬͇̜̦w̟̘̯̘̘̠̲͕a̜̺̲n̪͉̞̦̤t̪̼̙ ̳̲̙̳̼͕̟ṭ̩̤o̪̝͙ ̦͔h̻͍ḛ̼a̭̞̲̼͉ͅr̮͚͍͕̘̦͍̺ ͙͈͙ỵo̘̮̭̖̯̼u̮̩̦̦͚!͔̭̹͈̼͕̼̗ͅ ̲͚̤̟̙̹S̭̱͖̠̥͇h̜̝̗u̖̼̰̫̯t͉̗̹͕͖ ͍̼̝u̻̗͖̰̖͇̳̖p̤͔̫̳̞!̻͎͎ ̖̪̪L̟̹̯̪͇̥̮ͅͅi͓̻͚͓̮͓̤̦ͅe͉̳s͕̻̳̳̗̮̬̮.̖̖̯̭̻̼ ͎͚̤͉̠̰͓I̥̘͖'͙̞̩̝͇̮m̯̜̙ ̠̠̮͖̱͈̺ḽ̗̭̬͈͚̼̩y̭̗i̟͖̥͎̥̰ͅn̩̼͖͔g͓̠͈̝.̳̻̜͖̳̞͇ ̬͖͖͉ͅͅͅW̼͉̣̗h̠̜̜͓̥͈̰̞o̯̠͖̠̹̼ ̱͈̝̲̠̺ͅa͇͔m̳̮̭͎̼̥͕̝ ͙̯͙̥̱̩͖̬̳I̪̫̲̠̰̳̹ ̬͚̙̦̠l̹̪͚y̮̝̟̩̩̹̻̩i̲̜n͇̭̳g̦͉ͅ ̳̼̤t͓̤o̖̠?̙͇͉̝ ̭̱̰̻ͅG̞̣̥̲̹̗̣h̝̻͉̱̱̠̪o̗͎̤̘̥s̘͎̥̲̝͚̬͓ṱ͚̞̩̫̫͇,͍̹̩̹̺͍̥̰̮ ̪̫̺͚̲̲̳̱̪e͇͉͚v͈̫̲̘ẹ̦̳̻̼͔r͎̠̦̳̺͉y̪̠w͙͖̺͙̖̭ͅh͙̭͚ͅe̳̮͙̱̹̭ṛ̪̥e̱͉̖̤̻͙.̭͍ͅ ̬̼͍̥̬ͅT̳͇̦̗̮͙̱̼h̻̱̖̳̞̺i̟͇̝̩̥ͅs͔̱ ̪w̼̳͓̭̺ͅh̫̺͕̘̫̝̘͎o͖̜̻̘̮͍͈l̘͓ẹ̣ ̳̠̬̳̯̦ͅi̞̖̺̞ṣ̙̞l͙a̝͔̼̭n͓̻͍̖d͖̺ ̩̘̹̮̹̭i̭̤̬̖̳̣s͈͕ ̻̘̖ͅd̘͍̬̻̬̯r͎͓͉͕̙͙͓̥o͔͍̞w̝̜̙͓̟̠͓͓n̼̝̳͔̳i̮̗̤n̲͇̖̠g̹ ͉͔͍͚̗i͓n͍̬̭̙̦̪͖ ͙̘͔̼̮͙͍̹g̬̺̗͈h͓̦̗o̗̟̝̝̮̳ṣ͉t͖̯̬̤̥̟̪.͔̺̤ ̖̠̹̘͙C͙̦̮͍̣̘̤̳a͔̻̝̩̝n̮̰ͅ ̘g̞̬͙̥h̟̫͈̠̦̗̪̼o̯͓͓s̝̹t̘̞͎̞̞͔͖̬ ̥͚͙̺d̞r͔͇͎̭͇o̜͓w͇̦̠̯̥̘̜̙̠n͕̯͚̝̰?̬̮͎͖̞ ̲̞̦ͅI̱͎̻̤̩͕͖ ̻̠̦t̳̱̥͈h̼͔̳̪̮̻̪i͎͚͚̰̯̞n̬̪̲̰k̦̙̠̘̪̙͉ͅ ̼̥̝̫̪̫I̹̪̘̹̤̺'̟̱m͉̭͔̰̬̥͍̣̣ ͍g̩̰̞o̗͇̹͉̫̩͙̹i͎͇̥̮̠n̘̳g͓̲ ͇̬̱̬̪̗c͈̻͖̩̳̳r̘̣̜͍͙a̮̖̰̺̠z͍͈͕̞͙̞̺y̻͈̼͇͔̰̰͕.͚̫̪͇̹̦͎ ̹͚͚̫͚̭A̙̪͚̭̠̗͖̥m͍̯ ̭̘̪͉͖I͚̙͖̥͍ ̟̺̬̹̱ͅg͚͕ͅo͈̗i̱̜̞̫̙͙n͖͓̘̣͓̩̭͉̘g̦̠͚ ͕̟̪̖͇ͅc̣̜̣̥r̪̥̝͔a̜͇̱̙̼̰̰͕̦z̤͙͍͙̣͎y̼̜͉̳?̱̫̜̰ ̹I͔ ̼̘̼̖ḳn̠̙̜̩o͕̝̗w̙̫̫̬̗ͅ ̹̭t̤̞̼͈̣̗̗ḫ̪̰̰e̹̱̹͈̭̱̰ͅ ̹̹o̳͔͎̻n̮̦͓̦͓̻͉l͈͙̹y͚̦̳ ̠̲̖̦m͕̖̟̗̙̥̮ͅe̠͖̲̳͎͙̮͔̲ ̩̖̮i̻s͈͓̙̺̭͇ ̬̲m̗̪e̫,̖̭̺̰͙͔̝ ̠͈̭b̪̮ṷ̱̜t͕̻̤͖͓ ̤͍͔͕̰͖͕̳a̻̻̭̜̥͈̘r̲ẹ̺͇͍̻͍̼ ̠̫͇̘̤̺y̯͇͚̠̭͚̠͕̱o̩̬̗̫͕̫̙̝ͅu͔͇̠ ̗̠̫̲͖͓̥s͍̥̟̟̤̗u̳̬̻r̗̟̥e̺̗̙̭ ̹̲̲̬̤̙̖͙t̤̰͕h͕̻͚̟̹͙̰e̩͈̯ ̩͈͈͔o̝͈̩͖̳̟̙̮n͙̫̭͚͇̫̦̦l̯͖͕y̬̬̳͔̪̙͔ ̰̙̱̲͚̪ͅy̮o̯̼͉̦ṵ̰̺̲̜͕ ̬̞̟̥͎̖ͅi̝̤s̥̪̲͕̺̳̘̞ͅ ̬̦͇̦̱y̳͎o̫̯͖͇̪̫̯u̬̤̹̝?̗̥ ̗̻̟̦͈̱C͕͍̹̱̪̩̱͓̦r̖̭͖̙͈̣̝̞ạ̖̗̗̦̻ͅz͇̻̻̭y̻̱̬̲̗.̱̭͈͔̪ ̼̙͇͖̫̙̼ͅL̖̝i̼̖̼̥̜e̜̮̫̫̪ͅͅs̠͎.͉ ͔̤̞̠̞G̥̻͈h̤͎͈̼̫o̯̺̜̘͙s͈̞̺̗͙̩͎̮ț̟̥̖̟̻̺̬͇.͖̲̖̳̼͈̞ͅ ̳̼I͓͔͓ ̝͇̳̤͉͚̜̬̙c̦̳͕͓̺̤̙a̝͔͉̩̥n͚̞̫͙'̭͔t̜̟͓̱ ͚̹̗̺̜̱g̦͚̠͕̖͔o͇̰̺̲ ͕̤̝̮̩t͈̺̩o̞̼͙̖ ̤͇͕̖s̺̦lͅe͚̠̰͉e̫̲͓ͅp̦̠,̻͕ ͖͓̪͕̤̞̺t̳̥͍̬͙̫̗̗h̬̼̫̜̰ḛ̮̙ ͉͙̪͖̱d̼̮e̩a̼̣͚̳̮͍͎̩̖d̗̮̫͔͇͚ ̻̩̹̳̺a̫͍̱͖̙r͙̝͎e̘̰̬̠͉ ͓̻̫̞̩̟̳̪s̲̟c͚̜̹͍̮̜r̲̻̤̳̥͈e͔a̠̜̺̟͉m̖͔̬͉̪i͙̯̣̣̫̻̺n̘̤g̙̖̬̣̬ͅ ̳̼͖̦͈̻̹̦a͎͈͎̱͕̻̫t̞̤̰͍ ̰̹̜̪m̰̼̺͙e̥͓͍͕̞̣ ̖͕̳̱̻ͅw̟̳̼h̜̯̤̻e͕n̠͇͇ ̪̹I̗̥͙̞̤̲͉̩ͅ ̪̠̘̥ͅḓr͔̮̲e̤͍͖̥ͅa͚̦̲͔m̦̙̹̗ͅ.̻̯̘̥ ̳̼͙̱̥̬̗͍͇ _


	3. Bethany at School

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens and Bethany worries.

Bethany was bored out of her mind in this math class. Felix, sweet boy that he was, sat next to her, the answering flying onto paper from his quill, looking up now and again to write down what the very lacey and puffy looking teacher in her rhinestone mask was saying. Bethany liked Felix. He wasn’t good at magic and he was often sick, so when her sister had sent her here to learn, Felix was sent as well. He said his father was worried about him and the state of the Imperium. She liked having a friend. He would help her with all of this math. X plus X times Y to the tenth power, if made her head hurt.

When the bell rang out for lunch everyone all but ran off, Felix took his time though as he coughed into his sleeve, she waited for him on the steps and they walked together down to lunch. 

“I don’t get how you understand all of that, Felix.” she said as they walked down the steps into the open yarded courtyard. Their uniforms were different from the other students. As Tevinter Nationals they wore The Archons coat of arms on their breast instead of the Lion of Orlais. Black and Gold were their robes while everyone else wore powder blue and lilly white. The Templars could only glare at them and monitor them. Born as mages but protected by law. No one wanted a war with Tevinter, not when a civil raged already. 

Felix smiled at her as they followed the loop around the fountain, “It’s logic. Once you understand that math is a simple step by step process with rules that can not be changed or broken like magic, then it becomes easy.” 

Bethany rolled her eyes, “I think becoming a Grey Warden is easier.” 

Felix ran his nails along his jawline as he spoke, “I have heard that the Grey Wardens are fighting the Archdemon in the Anderfels.” 

“Really?” Bethany looked at him in shock, “There’s a Blight?” 

Felix stopped and looked ashamed, “Oh...you didn’t know. I’m sorry, Beth. I....I thought you had been told by friends or even family back in Ferelden.” 

“We didn’t really have friends. Our Uncle Gamlen, my mother's brother, lives in Kirkwall. Mom says he hasn’t changed. I hope that the Blight doesn’t get to Ferelden.” 

“I don’t think it will.” Felix said with a chuckle, “The Grey Wardens are too strong and too many. The Blight will be over before we know it.” 

Bethany seemed to think about something for a long moment and then she smirked at Felix, “I think I’ll become a Grey Warden.” 

“Really?”

“Yes.” She jumped onto a bench and began to mock sword fight as she walked along the wood, “Going to every land to gain brave men and women, archers and Templars, elf, dwarf, human, mage, even-even-even Qunari! I would be become Warden Commander!” She jumped from the bench and then pointed a finger at Felix, “And once I’m done with that, I’ll marry you.” she put her hands on her hips. Felix blushed. 

“You don’t have to do that. You should marry someone you love.” 

“And if I love you?” 

“You’re a kid! What do you know about loving someone?” 

“Just as much as you!” 

“You’re ten!” 

Bethany kicked at the dirt under her heels, “I’m turning eleven soon. So is Carver.” 

“When?” 

“Right before the summer solstice.” she answered as they kept walking, “Berni will be eighteen in a few more weeks!” 

Felix smirked, “Then she should be allowed to go home from Seheron for a bit.” 

“Why?” 

Felix opened the door to the lunch hall for Bethany and followed her into the line, picking up the trays, “By tradition, when you turn eighteen you go through one final Harrowing before taking an official seat in the Senate. She would be an Altus like us but since your father...well, she got his title and instead gets a seat that would allow her make laws and enforce them. By vote of course.” 

Bethany made a face at the pea soup that they gave her and instead gave the bowl to Felix, he like peas where she did not. He in turn gave her the duck they were serving, “So she would be able to make any law she wanted if she got enough votes?” 

“Only if she has enough votes.” 

“And that means they put it on paper?” 

“In a sense. They write it down on paper with their family crest and then toss it into a large barzar in the middle of the voting room. The fire keeps track of the votes by magic that is too old to be tampered with. The fire is shown to the senate. Red fire means the law won’t get passed, a blue flame means if does and a purple flame means that a tiebreaker is needed.” 

They took their seats by one of the large windows where a large tree housed a pair of turtle doves cooing at each other, “What is a tiebreaker?” 

Felix stirred his soup, not meeting her eyes, “You wouldn’t like what I told you.” 

“Just tell me, I can take it.” 

“The main slave to the Magister in question will be put up against a rabid dragon in the arena. If the slave lives the law passes. Not many slaves pass at all.” 

Bethany gripped her fork tight, thinking of Fenris. He would have died for her sister. He looked at her like how her father used to look at her mother. The sun did not rise and the moon did not fall without her permission and he knew it. Fenris loved Bernadette like that. She stabbed her duck and began to cut into it, “That’s stupid. Why not play a game of chess three times and whoever wins the most has their law pass?” 

“They like their blood sports more.” Felix replied and took a sip of his soup. 

**********

Nicodemus hated having to keep up appearance among sheep but it was needed. As the Senate was let out he saw Leandra on her horse waiting at the bottom steps looking ready to kill. But why shouldn’t she? He had sent her son to be a pleasure slave with no memory of who he was or what he had been before that to a woman who was just as cruel as him. The fact that Leandra could do no nothing is what vexed her the most. Carver was kept as a pretty bird in a cage, and Nicodemus had gained an alley. She had even agreed to help him when his granddaughter got back. 

Another magister that they both knew had taste that ran young. So long as they were alive and not killed by any extreme blood magic rituals, then he had no need for them. Bernadette was a Dreamer, and her magic should be enough to raise their Elder One and put their nation back on top of the food chain. As he got to the bottom step he smiled up at her. Behind her where the Templars he had hired to keep a tight leash on her. 

“Leandra” Nicodemus bowed politely, “you look lovely this morning.” Her head-dress was gold, her cloak ermine. Her retinue of Templars sat their mounts behind her: Ser Murali Blount wearing white scale and his favorite scowl; Ser Lennox Swann, bow slung from his silver-inlay saddle; Lord Hali Rosby, his wheezing cough worse than ever; Ryley the Pyromancer of the Alchemists’ Guild. Daniel and twenty guardsmen rode escort, “Where are you bound this day, Leandra?” Nicodemus asked, “I’m about to make a round of the gates to inspect the new scorpions and spitfires. I would not have it thought that all of us are as indifferent to the city’s defense as you seem to be.”

She didn’t care about him or any of the mages she had been forced to submit to while here. She cared about her children and what were happening to them. She would not weep a single tear if the whole city burnt down. Her hands squeezed onto the reins of her horse. Leandra fixed him with those clear blue eyes of hers, beautiful even in their contempt, “I am informed that The Arishok has marched from his city of Kings. He is making his way up the Rose Road, with all his strength behind him.”

Nicodemus felt his smile waver just a little but he held it firm even as his eye twitched, “The Shadow gave me the same report.”

“He could be here by the full moon.” Leandra snapped at him, the wind picking up and tossing her hair lightly about her head. 

“Not at his present pace,” Nicodemus assured her.

Leandra scowled at him, “And every day, more men rally to his religious banners. His host is now said to be a hundred thousand strong.”

Nicodemus wanted to scowl. The Qunari had their whole island and vast majority of the population of Rivani under their choking religious hold, and elves ran to them seeking shelter from the cruel hands of humans and slave hunters. They had more than that under their command but not all of them were soldiers. It seemed unlikely and he said as much, “That seems rather high.”

Leandra rolled her eyes and spoke in a haughty noble tone, as was fitting of her birth status, “He has the power of Summer’s End and Kings behind him, you little fool,” Leandra snapped down at him, “All the bannermen save the Redwoods have turn traitor and went to the Qunari and my daughter is fighting them as we speak. And what have you done thus far? You have kidnapped me from my home along with my son and have left him under the cruel hands of that bitch! And you try to lie and steal more power for yourself and only so many will fall for those lies. Lord Paxter, the man you need to sail you to get my daughter back from war, will not even listen to you because of what you have done to him and his family. So long as you hold those poxy twins of his, Lord Paxter will squat on the Arbor and count himself fortunate to be out of it.”

Nicodemus gave her a smile. He folded his hands behind his back, and let her scowl a little longer before hitting her below the belt with his words. Malcolm was once called the King of Flowers and she knew this. He had given up that title and married her. And now he was gone. Along with her daughters. One of them was even in a war.

“A pity you let the King of Flowers slip through your pretty fingers. Still, The Arishok has other concerns besides us. Our friends at Hadrian's Hall, Onyx Stark at River March. Were I the Arishok, I would do much as he is doing. Make my progress, flaunt my power for the realm to see, watch, wait. Let my rivals contend while I bide my own sweet time. If he defeats us, the south will fall into The Arishok’s hands like a windfall from the gods, and he’ll not have lost a man. And if it goes the other way, he can descend on us while we are weakened.”

Leandra was not appeased. “I want you to bring your army to Minrathous. I am sure that the Senate and even the Archon would not oppose your protection. After all, you have spirit slaves to do your bidding. You could make an army that would not tire. Why you do not offer Minrathous your protection instead of scheming I will never understand!”

“When have I ever been able to make anyone do anything?” he asked sweetly. 

She ignored the question he had posed to her and instead let her voice raise as she yelled at him, “And when do you plan to free Carver? He’s worth a hundred of you.”

He had sent the boy to Lady Stark, the mother of Onyx, to serve as bodyguard and pleasure slave in turn. It was a faux slave arrangement, and at any point he could go and get the boy. He had no desire to do it, at least not until Bernadette and Bethany were once more in his possession. Nicodemus grinned crookedly. “Don’t tell Lady Stark, I beg you. We don’t have a hundred of me to trade.”

“You’re worse than useless.” She jerked the reins and wheeled her palfrey around. She rode out the gate at a brisk trot, ermine cloak streaming behind her. Her retinue hastened after. In truth, The Arishok did not frighten Nicodemus half so much as his two other leaders did. The Arishok was beloved of the common people and their petty wants and needs that they thought would be fixed by the crazy ox men and their perverted teachings, but he had never before led men in war, no real war, not like how he had once done while in Seheron.

The Arigena was otherwise: hard, cold, inexorable. If only they had some way of knowing what was happening in Par Vollen. The striped hulls of war galleys had been seen offshore, though, and The Shadow had reports of pirate captains taking service in Par Vollen.  _ If Arigena attacks by sea while his brother The Arishok storms the gates, they’ll soon be mounting Quentin’s head on a spike. Worse, mine will be beside him. A depressing thought. _

_ ********** _

Bethany was sleeping when the knocking came in the middle of the night. She had been curled around a pillow and tucked under a thick blanket. She missed having Bernadette and Carver near her when she slept. She wasn’t used to being alone. The knocking drew her from sleep and she wrapped her blanket tight around her as she used a small magelight to see where she was going. She didn’t open the door as she called out who was there. 

“Commander Francis Cobalt of the Templar Order and Altus Pavus from Minrathous.” came the answer. She frowned. Dorian was, according to Felix and his letters from his friend, still learning old arts in the schools in the desert up north in Tevinter. 

“Why are you here at this hour?” she asked. 

A voice smooth as silk answered, “I am here on behalf of your grandfather, Nicodemus Hawke, to come and get you. He would like you to be home. News from the war front has him worried.” 

Bethany rubbed her eyes as she let the magelight hover, “Did Bernadette ask him to send for me? Is she okay?” 

“Your sister is going to be coming home soon, and your grandfather would like to make her coming home present to be a welcome one. Seeing you would be a welcome sight!” the voice said. 

She scowled at the closed doors, “So she didn’t ask for me, or for our grandpa to have someone come a pick me up?” 

The Templar spoke, “It was very sudden.” 

The voice sounded angry, “It was a quick decision. The Qunari are moblie, more than have been in years. If war is coming then he would like her to be home.”

She stepped away from the door and grabbed her staff, holding it in front of her, “I’m not going anywhere unless my sister said so. So unless I get a letter from her saying to go home, then I’m staying here. The school says only my mother or my sister can take me out of the advanced program.” 

The Templar took a heavy step forward, “Please, allow me to escort you, sir. Miss Hawke has a point. So please, follow me.” 

The voice mumbled in Tevinter but they moved away. She didn’t let go of her staff as she climbed back into bed. She watched the door until the sun rose. When Felix came to get her he stopped mid sentence and he lowered his hand as she made her way to him. 

“Bethany? What happened? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

“Hey, where is Dorian. Your friend, Dorian Pavus?”

Felix raised an eyebrow at her, “Sleeping with a man in the elvhen slums called...Rin-something. He’s back in the Imperium. Why?”

She chewed on her bottom lip and answered, “An Altus with the named of Pavus came to get me last night to take me back to Tevinter.” 

“Your sister wants you to leave?” 

“No. I don’t think she knows. My grandpa wants me home, not Berni.” 

Felix frowned, “But...she put you into the school. Only she or your mother can pull you out. Why would a Pavus come all the way here just to get you in the middle of the school year?” 

“I don’t know,” she answered, “but I’m scared. I don’t want to go home unless Hawke is with me. She left me here, she can pick me up.” 

Felix looked down at his feet, “I’ll write Dori, see if he knows anything. And my father. Maybe he can shed some light on this.” 

She rested a hand on his shoulder and smiled when he met her eyes, “Thank you, Felix.” she kissed his cheek. 

_ **************** _

The slave boy that his granddaughter had bought, Payne, stood at the door of his solar, studying the floor, “He’s inside,” he announced to Nicodemus’s belt buckle, “Your solar. My lord. Sorry.”

Nicodemus sighed and pinched his nose, “Look at me you stupid cunt. Who is inside my solar?”

“Lord Lender.” Payne managed a quick look at his face, then hastily dropped his eyes, “I meant, Lord Bruce. Lord Lansky. The master of coin.”

“You make him sound like a crowd.” The boy hunched down as if struck, making Nicodemus feel absurdly giddy.

Lord Lansky was seated on his window seat, languid and elegant in a plush plum-colored doublet and a yellow satin cape, one gloved hand resting on his knee. Lender turned away, “Boy, are you fond of potted hare?” he asked Payne. Payne stared at the visitor’s boots, lovely things of  ruby red-dyed leather.

Payne licked his lips and asked, “To eat, my lord?”

“Invest in pots,” Lender advised as he idly waved his hand, “Hares will soon overrun the city. We’ll be eating hare thrice a day.”

“Better than rats on a skewer,” said Nicodemus, remembering eating rats in Seheron when a summer storm blocked them from their supplies and the ship from the shore to deliver their supplies, “Payne, leave us. Unless Lord Lansky would care for some refreshment?”

“Thank you, but no.” Lender flashed his mocking smile, “Drink with you, it’s said, and you don’t wake up. Black brings out my unhealthy pallor.”

_ Have no fear, my lord  _ , Nicodemus thought,  _ it’s not what I have in mind for you.  _ He seated himself in a high chair piled with cushions and said, “You look very elegant today, my lord.”

He gave a preen and placed his hand on his chest, using the other decorated with gold and silver rings to wipe away a mock tear, “I’m wounded. I strive to look elegant every day.”

Nicodemus looked at him with a bored look, “Is the doublet new?”

“It is. You’re most observant.” he answered with a giddy tone. 

It was an eye sore to behold but Nicodemus had learned to be polite when it got him what he wanted, “Plum and yellow. Are those the colors of your House?” Lansky had no house. He was not a mage of any talent and he was not a Magister. Lansky gave him a cold smirk.

“No. But a man gets bored wearing the same colors day in and day out, or so I’ve found.” He said and shifted in his seat. A glint caught Nicodemus’ eye. He felt a coil of anger in his stomach. He gave Bruce a lazy smile.

“That’s a handsome knife as well.”

Bruce looked at it and said airly, “Is it?” There was mischief in Lender’s eyes. He drew the knife and glanced at it casually, as if he had never seen it before, “Grey Warden steel, and a dragonbone hilt. A trifle plain, though. It’s yours, if you would like it.”

“Mine?” Nicodemus gave him a long look, the knife had been the one to send Malcolm past the Veil and into the urn he now called home. A gift he had been told by his son, when he had helped the Grey Wardens seal the Elder Ones, and Nicodemus had felt a sick satisfaction when that blood drew blood from his son, “No. I think not. Never mine.”

_ He knows, the insolent wretch. He knows and he knows that I know, and he thinks that I cannot touch him.  _ If ever truly a man had armed himself in gold, it was Bruce Lansky.

Nicodemus had learned a few things about sweet Bruce, to his growing disquiet. Ten years ago, Marina Arryn had given him a minor sinecure in customs, where Lord Bruce had soon distinguished himself by bringing in three times as much as any of the Archon’s other collectors. The last Archon had been a prodigious spender. A man like Bruce Lansky, who had a gift for rubbing two golden coins together to breed a third, was invaluable to his court. Lender’s rise had been arrow-swift. Within three years of his coming to court, he was master of coin and a member of the small council, and today the crown’s revenues were ten times what they had been under his beleaguered predecessor though the crown’s debts had grown vast as well. A master juggler was Bruce Lansky.

Oh, he was clever. He did not simply collect the gold and lock it in a treasure vault, no. He paid the Archon’s debts in promises, and put the Archon’s gold to work. He bought wagons, shops, ships, houses. He bought grain when it was plentiful and sold bread when it was scarce. He bought wool from the north and linen from the south and lace from Nevarra, stored it, moved it, dyed it, sold it. The golden dragons bred and multiplied, and Lender lent them out and brought them home with hatchlings. 

And in the process, he moved his own men into place. The Keepers of the Keys were his, all four. The Archon’s Counter and the Archon’s Scales were men he’d named. The officers in charge of all three mints. Harbormasters, tax farmers, customs sergeants, wool factors, toll collectors, pursers, wine factors; nine of every ten belonged to Lender. They were men of middling birth, by and large; merchants’ sons, lesser lordlings, sometimes even foreigners, but judging from their results, far more able than their highborn predecessors. No one had ever thought to question the appointments, and why should they?

Lender was no threat to anyone. A clever, smiling, genial man, everyone’s friend, always able to find whatever gold the Archon or his Hand required, and yet of such undistinguished birth, one step up from a hedge knight, he was not a man to fear. He had no banners to call, no army of retainers, no great stronghold, no holdings to speak of, no prospects of a great marriage.  _ But do I dare touch him?  _ Nicodemus wondered.  _ Even if he is a traitor? He was not at all certain he could, least of all now, while the war raged. _

Nicodemus said, “My lord, you were fostered at River March. I’ve heard it said that you grew close to the Laufey's.”

Laufey was once a powerful house. They were known to be ruthless and had once been on the fast track to being supreme leaders of their order. They had tried to get their daughter to be Archon but she had died from an assassination attempt. They tried her twin who ran away and all three of the youngest siblings went to Seheron and never came back to Minrathous proper, instead choosing to stay there and hold onto the lands that had once been owned by the Archon before his death. They had fallen out of the order, but still married other mages in order to keep the bloodline. They had become rabid dogs with little love for the Imperium or their order, but were not willing to align themselves with the Qunari. A few houses had sent their wayward sons and daughters to them to teach them to be grateful for their parents loving nature.

Once the child got home they sent them to a circle to learn, which meant that they didn’t come home for years. It was little wonder why mage children felt more love to their slaves than their parents. Bruce Lansky had been one such ward to the Laufey's.

Bruce clicked his tongue, “You might say so. The girls especially.”

“How close?” Nicodemus wondered aloud.

“I had their maidenhoods. Is that close enough?” The lie—Nicodemus was fairly certain it was a lie—was delivered with such an air of nonchalance that one could almost believe it. Could it have been Onyx Stark who lied? Onyx was the only son of the woman he had sent the boy to, and the only son who had married into that family in almost four generations. He had said that Bruce and he had often clashed while he was there and was happy to see him leave. When he was asked why he said it was a private affair and that he would not share any of the details.

The rumor was that his wife had been having an affair with Bruce before he left. Bruce never said yes nor no but now he was admitting to it; was it because of the war or because Hoster Laufey was dead? What did he have to gain from the lie? The longer he lived, the more Nicodemus realized that nothing was simple and little was true. He no time for this. He would have to try a different approach, “Lord Hoster’s daughters do not love me,” he confessed, “I doubt they would listen to any proposal I might make. Yet coming from you, the same words might fall more sweetly on their ears. “

Lender gave him a crooked smile, “That would depend on the words. If you mean to offer Aegis in return for your granddaughter, waste someone else’s time. Quentin will never surrender a mage of some talent, and Onyx Stark is not so great a fool as to barter our hold in Seheron for a slip of a girl.”

“I mean to have Bethany as well. I have men searching.”

“Searching is not finding.” Bruce said lightly and flipped the knife back into its sheath. Nicodemus tried not to grind his teeth.

“I’ll keep that in mind, my lord. In any case, it was The Ariqun I hoped you might sway. For her, I have a sweeter offer.”

The Ariqun had, to Nicodemus’ knowledge, never left Par Vollen except to go to Seheron to comfort the believers of the Qun. As leader of both the spy network and their female caretakers, it made sense. The spies had been all over Seheron and all a different race. The caretakers, known as ‘tamassrans’, had set up small settlements to raise the next generation of Qun followers. If he could get her to Seheron and away from her numerous guards he could kill her. It would send the Qunari into a panic and while they wasted time finding someone to replace her, he could claim his spot as a defender of the people and also steal Bernadette back in one swoop. But he had tried this plan once before, and The Ariqun had lived.

She had lost an eye for the trouble but she was alive.

Bruce gave a very dramatic sigh, “The Ariqun is more tractable than The Arishok, true... but also more fearful, and I understand she hates you.”

“She believes she has good reason. When I was her guest in Seheron many years ago, she insisted that I’d murdered her children and was not inclined to listen to denials.” He leaned forward, “If I gave her the true killer, she might think more kindly of me.” Never mind the fact that he had in fact killed a whole compound of children with a simple fire spell and iron chains on the doors. Most had been Qunari, a few humans, even a few elves. Their caretaker had met a foul fate. Poor thing drank too much of the spiked nightshade tea and never woke up. But no one needed to know that. And those that had know that went on a very long vacation. A very long vacation indeed.

That made Lender sit up, “True killer? I confess, you make me curious. Who do you propose?”

It was Nicodemus’s turn to smile, “Gifts I give my friends, freely. The Ariqun would need to understand that.”

“Is it her friendship you require, or her turning a blind eye after meeting with you?”

“Both.”

Lender stroked the neat spike of his beard, “The Ariqun has woes of her own. Clansmen raiding out of the Mountains of the Moon in Rivani and pirates setting fire to their ports before fleeing Par Vollen, in greater numbers than ever before... and better armed.”

“Distressing,” said Nicodemus Hawke, who had armed them with coin, drink and runes of powerful magic, “I could help her with that. A word from me—”

“And what would this word cost her?” Bruce interrupted. 

“I want my granddaughter, Bernadette Hawke.”

Lender shook his head, “There’s the roach in your pudding, Hawke. The Ariqun will never  tell The Arishok to send his warriors against River March. Assuming that they even listen to you.”

“Nor would I ask it. We have no lack of enemies. I’ll not ask her to use her power to oppose The Arishok, or The Arigena, should he stir from Par Vollen. I will give her justice for the children and peace in the Vale. And to seal the bargain, I will give her my daughter-in-law's oldest child.” He had the pleasure of seeing a look of genuine surprise in Bruce Lansky’s grey-green eyes.

“Bernadette? You would let the child become a member of The Qun in order to gain favor here in Minrathous?”

“Hardly. When she comes of age she will come home and be grateful for it. Until such time, she’ll be The Ariqun ward.”

“And what does Leandra think of this ploy?” When Nicodemus shrugged, Lender burst into laughter, “I thought not. You’re a dangerous little man, Hawke. Yes, I could sing this song to her.” Again the sly smile, the mischief in his glance, “If I cared to.” Nicodemus nodded, waiting, knowing Lender could never abide a long silence, “So,” Lord Bruce continued after a pause, utterly unabashed, “what’s in your pot for me?”

“Hadrian's Hall.” It was interesting to watch his face. Lord Bruce’s father had been the smallest of small lords, his grandfather a landless knight; by birth, he held no more than a few stony acres on the windswept shore. Hadrian's Hall was one of the richest plums in Seheron right before River March, its lands broad and rich and fertile, its great castle as formidable as any in the realm and so large as to dwarf River March, where Bruce Lansky had been fostered by House Laufey, only to be brusquely expelled when he dared raise his sights to Lord Hoster’s daughter. Lender took a moment to adjust the drape of his cape, but Nicodemus had seen the flash of hunger in those sly cat’s eyes.

“Hadrian’s Hall is cursed,” Lord Bruce said after a moment, trying to sound bored.

“Then raze it to the ground and build anew to suit yourself. You’ll have no lack of coin. I mean to make you a liege lord. These river lords have proven they cannot be trusted.”

“Even the Laufey's?”

Nicodemus gave him a cat's grin, “If there are any Laufey’s left when we are done.”

Lender looked like a boy who had just taken a furtive bite from a honeycomb. He was trying to watch for bees, but the honey was so sweet, “Hadrian’s Hall and all its lands and incomes,” he mused, “With a stroke, you’d make me one of the greatest lords in the realm. Not that I’m ungrateful, my lord, but—why?”

“You served my sister well in the matter of the succession.”

“As did Janos. On whom this same castle of Hadrian’s Hall was quite recently bestowed—only to be snatched away when he was no longer of use.”

Ah yes, Magister Janos who had helped his son flee all those years ago and even hide in a southern circle like some common whores son. Janos had denied it. He had denied at parties. At the senate. Even when his spies had found out about where Malcolm was, in that little hut in the heart of dog lords shit hole of a country. He had denied it even when he had pressed. But he had confessed to The Shadow and The Shadow was only friends with those who had deep pockets.

Nicodemus laughed, “You have me, my lord. What can I say? I need you to deliver The Ariqun. I did not need Janos.” He gave a crooked shrug, “I’d sooner have you seated in Hadrian’s Hall than The Arishok seated on the throne. What could be plainer?”

“What indeed.”

“I have little doubt you’ll be equal to the task.”

“I once told Stark that when you find yourself naked with an ugly woman, the only thing to do is close your eyes and get on with it.” Lender steepled his fingers and gazed into Nicodemus’s eyes, “Give me a fortnight to conclude my affairs and arrange for a ship to carry me to Seheron.”

“That will do nicely.” His guest rose.

“This has been quite the pleasant morning, Hawke. And profitable for both of us, I trust.” He bowed, his cape a swirl of yellow as he strode out the door. He went up to his bedchamber to await The Shadow, who would soon be making an appearance. Evenfall, he guessed. Perhaps as late as moonrise, though he hoped not. He hoped to visit his favorite whore tonight.

**********

Bethany looked down at the letter from her sister and worried. There was blood on a few pages and the ink seemed shaky in a few spots. Whole lines had been rubbed out with more ink. She hadn’t signed her name or even started with a greeting. Ten pages of words and only three of them made any sense to her. Did war make her sick? Was she ok? 

The letters were weeks apart but that did not mean that she wasn’t writing to Bethany everyday. Felix had heard back from both his father and his friend Dorian. Dorian had a cousin on his father's side who was still an Altus that had been taken under the wind of her grandfather. It was most likely that it had been him who came to get here. His father had heard uneasy rumors about a cult. She had written to mother but her uncle had answered. Her mother had gone back to Tevinter along with her twin.

Mother didn’t like grandfather, she had said as much. She worried her lower lip and folded the letter once more. Something was going on and she didn’t know what it was but made her sick to her stomach to think about it. She tucked the letter into her bag and went down the steps to the math class she had with Felix. She saw a man watching her from the street beyond the school fence. She stopped and looked at him and he looked at her, smoking on elf root. She could smell it.

She frowned at him and he smiled at her. She kept walking, watching the man. He watched her until she walked up another set of steps and through an archway. She needed to tell her sister about this. She would know what to do about this. She always knew what to do. 

**************

“You are a cruel man, to make the Grand Master squirm so,” The Shadow scolded, “The man cannot abide a secret.”

“Is that a crow I hear, calling the raven black? Or would you sooner not hear what I’ve proposed to Sebastian Vael?”

The Shadow giggled, “Perhaps my little birds have told me.”

“Have they, indeed?” He wanted to hear this, “Go on.”

“The Free Marchers thus far have held aloof from these wars. Sebastian Vael has called his banners, but no more. His hatred for slavery is well known. You wish to dissuade him.”

“All this is obvious,” said Nicodemus.

“The only puzzle is what you might have offered for his allegiance. The prince is a sentimental man, and he still mourns his families deaths.”

“My father once told me that a lord never lets sentiment get in the way of ambition and it happens we have an empty seat on the small council.”

If the council would even let a man like the newly minted King in on their little affairs and puppet shows in the dark. But he had kept his end of the deal and Nicodemus had done his. If that lord knew what was good for him he would go far, far away and never raise his voice ever again. He had a wild thought. This new King and Bernadette, friends and comrades. He shook the thought from his head. He focused back on The Shadow.

“A council seat is not to be despised,” The Shadow admitted, “yet will it be enough to make a proud man forget his family's murder?”

“Why forget?” Nicodemus smiled, “I’ve promised to deliver his family’s killers, alive or dead, as he prefers. After the war is done, to be sure.”

The Shadow gave him a shrewd look. “My little birds tell me that Queen Elia cried a certain name when they came for her.”

“Is a secret still a secret if everyone knows it?” It was common knowledge that Amory Clegane had killed Elia. They said he had raped the Queen with her son’s blood and brains still on his hands.

“This secret is your lord father’s sworn man.”

Nicodemus had hated his father and was happy to see him expire. He was not happy to still have to deal with that demented old mage and his war like attitude from beyond the grave. If only he had killed him when he had the chance,“My father would be the first to tell you that fifty thousand Free Marchers are worth one rabid dog.”

The Shadow stroked a powdered cheek of his mask, “And if Prince...I mean, King Sebastian demands the blood of the lord who gave the command as well as the man who did the deed...”

“Robert led the rebellion. All commands came from him, in the end.” His father had been Robert Hawke, a man known to start and end his battles. Why the Vael family had been a target he didn’t know and he didn’t care. It was not his plan and it had not been his man who had killed them.

“Robert was not at Starkhaven.”

“Neither was Sebastian Vael. Nor was I.”

“So. Blood for his pride, a chair for his ambition. Gold and land, that goes without saying. A sweet offer, yet sweets can be poisoned. If I were the King, I would require something more before I should agree. Some token of good faith, some sure safeguard against betrayal.” The Shadow smiled his slimiest smile, “Which one will you give him, I wonder?”

Nicodemus sighed. “You know, don’t you?”

“Since you put it that way—yes. Bethany. You could scarcely offer Bernadette to Sebastian Vael and The Ariqun both.”

“Remind me never to play these guessing games with you again. You cheat. “

“Bethany is a good girl.”

“If I pry her away from Leandra and Bernadette while she’s still young, she may even grow to be a good wife.”

“And a good queen?”

“Bernadette is the queen of this cult for the moment and she doesn’t even know it.”

“And Bethany is heir, should anything ill befall Her Grace. Bethany, whose nature is so sweet, and notably tractable.”

“You have a suspicious mind, The Shadow.”

“I shall take that as a tribute, my lord. In any case, Prince Sebastian will hardly be insensible of the great honor you do him. Very deftly done, I would say; but for one small flaw.”

The blood mage laughed, “Named Leandra?”

“What avails the love of a mother for the sweet fruit of her womb? Perhaps, for the glory of her House and the safety of the realm, the woman might be persuaded to send away Bethany or Bernadette. But both of them? Surely not.”

“What Leandra does not know will never hurt me.”

“And if Her Grace were to discover your intentions before your plans are ripe?”

“Why,” he said, “then I would know the man who told her to be my certain enemy.”


End file.
